Use the dropdown options below to filter the photos. Click on an image to enlarge it.
Casa Botter, Hemingway’s billet from which he set out by bicycle on the fateful night when he was hit and wounded.
My bicycle is not quite the one Hemingway would have used, but not far off. It dates back to the 1920s.
A farmhouse in the flatlands of the Piave valley at Fossalta.
The Piave river at Fossalta. The Italian positions were on the left bank, Austrian on the right, when battle began at midnight on 8 July 1918. Moments later Hemingway was struck by a mortar blast.
The old pontoon bridge across the Piave river, the front line in 1918.
Hemingway was a regular visitor to the old Shakespeare and Company and borrowed books that often failed to find their way back.
Fifty-five years after liberation, I storm up to the Arc de Triompe in a Second World War American tank.
Waiting for a kick start.
Saying goodbye to Paris.
The correct outfit for San Fermín is a white shirt, white trousers and a splash of red.
Flour begins to fly in the Town Hall square, as Pamplona prepares to let off steam.
The Pamplona squeeze. Huge, soggy crowd cheers the start of an eight-day party.
From the air, the boma, or encampment, of the nomadic Masai looks like a cigarette burn in the middle of the bush. Fenced with thorns and accommodating humans and cattle, the bomas may last two or three years.
Mount Kilimanjaro with the jagged outcrop of Mawenzi Peak.
Going to clear lethal Wakamba cattle traps.
Clearing lethal Wakamba cattle traps.
Back at Ol Donyo Wuas, Richard’s lodge.
The waterfront at Cojímar.
The waterfront at Cojímar guarded by a rugged fortress dating from the days when Havana was an assembly point for the Spanish treasure fleets.
Is it George V or Lenin? Ernest Hemingway’s non-likeness is made from melted brass off the fishing boats of Cojímar, the village from which Pilar often set out. The memorial on the waterfront is a tribute from the locals.
At the boat-yard in Cojímar with the man whose grandson calls him ‘a living museum’. And a living source of income – tourists can visit him in his little house for fifty dollars a time.
Gregorio Fuentes. 101 and still smoking. The eyes are extraordinary.
Bodeguita, a favourite Hemingway bar.
Me and my pal, Pal. Bonding with a Palomino at the Hargrave Ranch.
The Magnificent Six bring the cattle back home. Less of a stampede, more like rounding up a crèche. But it was our first day.
Leo and Ellen – our heavenly hosts at the Hargrave Ranch.